The Hindu Business Line : Nursing exits with nostalgia

“Thes baras pahle Yogi Nagar nahin tha; pura jungle tha; jungle se dar nahin lagta tha; abhi motor gadion se dar lagtha hai (Yogi Nagar was a forest some 30 years ago; we were not afraid of the jungle; now, we are afraid of speeding vehicles),” remarked Bharat Ram, the auto driver. He is scared to drive his auto on Linking Road stuck between trailers and whizzing bikes with young couples. “ Kahbhi bhi khatam ho sakta hai (One could end up dead any time)”, he added.

Bharat Ram came to the area some 30 years ago when he was about 15 years old, working on the rice fields and vegetable patches deep in the forest. Towers, housing a flashy and thriving middle class, have come up where forests stood and Bharat Ram drifted from the fields to become an auto driver.

My friend Lachman Singh, sat and smiled at my home as he was one of the first citizens of our area. It was the full moon night of Karwa Chauth when wives pray for the well being of their husbands; surprisingly there is no date on the Indian calendar for males to pray for females. Lachman’s wife sighted the Silvo-polished moon from the terrace and offered sweets to the deity while her husband stood by.

That day Lachman Singh had turned 80. Dressed in a white dhoti and a khadi jibba, Lachman looked like a book, whose pages had turned a light brown and wilting on continuous use. Yet, like the book, Lachman continues to be interesting. After his wife had finished her prayers, they (including Bharat Ram) had dinner with us – aloo parathas, bhendi sabji, dal and pickles. Lachman stays at home and misses the morning walks. “Chhotdte nahin hain (They do not allow me to go),” whimpered Lachman while refusing to admit his legs gave in.

On his birthday, he went over to the Lord Ganesh temple at Vazira Naka and paid his dues as every mortal does to the God. That was the time when one saw him; we hugged and that was it; one did not wish him a happy birthday as the thought never occurred.

With Bharat Ram waiting in the auto, Lachman Singh could not ease into his long chats. Walking back home, one met Lakshmi, the Malayali lady, who has never missed out on offering her daily mumble to Lord Ganesh. Suffering from arthritis, she sways along with determination; every one at the temple knows her. Today she had a reason to smile. A builder has agreed to renovate her housing complex and she will get an extra room free. “Oru 560 sq ft kittum (We have been promised 560 sq ft.),” she told me. That will mean her family of six, now living in 300 sq. ft. space will get 260 sq ft. more and that too free.

For the builder, it is crore-crunching time as he will tire counting currency while putting up the 30-storey complex after providing free accommodation for the existing tenants. In Mumbai, they call it redevelopment or rather, enrichment of the building lobby without any KYC and PAN. She has been living at the same place for the last 30 and odd years when public bus services stopped at Vazira Naka as everything beyond was thickly wooded. One could see the creek shimmering like a sliver of silver. “Nadu pole aiyirunnu. Pedikkan onnum illa irinoo (It was like nadu, Kerala; there was nothing to be frightened of),” she said in Malayalam. Having signed the financial deal with the builder, the lady and her husband have booked seats in the Netravati Express and a change to Alleppey. My son and his wife will live in Borivili and we will provide back up service from our home in Mullakkal in Alleppey. Maybe, that’s what she prayed for to Lord Ganesh everyday; one did not ask.

While having dinner, Lachman broke the news. He was moving over to New Delhi at the urging of his granddaughter Utsav. “Ab kya karen; Utsav bula rahi hai (What to do; Utsav is calling) and Lachman cannot disobey Utsav. She reminds me of my grandmother, Lachman has told me in times when we used to walk together in the mornings. Only Lachman loved his grandmother a bit less than Utsav. Every day she would get up with the morning creak of the bullock cart heading out of the village to collect fuel wood and make it to the village pond for a bath. While bathing she would make two balls (only two) of mud and place it at the feet of the banyan tree overseeing the pond.

To Lachman’s surprise, she never lighted a diya. When quizzed, she replied: “Chand aur sooraj hain na (There is the moon and sun).” The next morning, she will drop the old mud balls into the pond, make two fresh ones and it went on and on … She never went to a temple; never believed in Karwa Chauth. After the bath, she would rest on her khatiya (string cot) and talk to everyone who cared to talk to her; gossip for the elders and made-up tales for her grand children like Lachman. When she was upset she would go away to the banyan tree and the family knew it.

At one of our morning tea sessions, Lachman confessed to a strong desire: My Utsav should get a job as an anchor in a TV news channel, something like Barkha Dutt or Ruki. Utsav is now an anchor in a popular Hindi TV news channel and is earning enough to buy a spacious flat in New Delhi. Lachman called up from the airport to say a “Dekhenge (See you).”

In March, my dear Umaji of the Bombay Natural History Society (BNHS), went away to his village in Sathna in Madhya Pradesh. One is nursing their exits.

P. Devarajan

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